Page 60 of Love Bomb

With a frown, Bain muttered, “not anymore.”

And then he sped through town toward the loch’s edge and the Scottie Dog hotel.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Rona had inherited her coloring from her father’s side of the family. Although, as he’d aged, George Dalgliesh’s hair had darkened to a rust shade that he felt was more dignified than the bright orange it’d been in his youth. As far as she could tell, all she’d gotten from her mother was her nose. It wasn’t much of a genetic heritage.

Her parents had chosen a square table in the window overlooking the black void of the loch. It was as far away from the big fireplace as you could get in the dining room without leaving the building entirely. Rona looked back at the fire with longing. Not because she was cold, more because she was suddenly missing the warmth.

“Why are you here?” Rona asked as she pulled out the chair opposite her mother.

“Don’t be obtuse,” her mother snapped. “A friend called and told me all about your visit to Invertary.”

“Kitty Baxter’s been busy again, huh?” Rona said. “She did love telling on me when I was a kid. I meant, why did you come all this way when you could have just called?”

“We felt the situation warranted a face-to-face,” her father said.

It was on the tip of Rona’s tongue to ask why birthdays or Christmases never warranted the same treatment.

Her mother gave her father a regal nod. “Kitty’s report was extremely disturbing. Is it true that you’re here to destroy your family’s legacy?” She literally clutched her pearls.

Rona barely refrained from rolling her eyes.

“No,” she said. “I’m not trying to destroy our legacy. I’m trying to change it.” In the hopes that the Dalgliesh family would be known for something more than their greed.

Before anyone could say anything else, the waitress arrived. The perky teen was completely oblivious to the tension at the table.

“Hi, I’m Polly,” she said with a smile. “The shepherd’s pie is good, but don’t touch the curry. Nobody knows what’s in it.”

Rona’s father looked horrified by the information—and probably by the interruption, too. “We’ll need a few minutes to consider the menu,” he said, dismissing her.

“Oh, okay, that’s fine.” The girl handed each of them a large, laminated sheet. “Most people just buy what I tell them, but I can totally let you decide.” With that, she cheerfully turned away to chat to another table.

Rona’s parents considered their menus with matching abhorrence. Her father turned his over to see if there was anything on the back. He seemed bewildered when it was blank.

“They laminate it to make it easier to wipe the food off,” Rona couldn’t resist saying.

Using the tips of her forefinger and thumb, her mother placed the offending menu as far away from her on the table as possible, then wiped her hands on her napkin before producing a tiny bottle of hand sanitizer from her designer purse. She delicately sanitized her hands before offering it to her ex-husband, who fell on it like he’d just struck gold.

Rona wondered how they’d managed to live in Invertary for over a decade. Then she remembered that, when they weren’t traveling, they’d either been socializing with their equally posh friends or dining out in Fort William.

The waitress, who was young and impatient, returned for their order before they’d had a chance to consider their options. Not that it mattered to Rona. She’d lost her appetite.

“Just a coke for me,” she said, handing her menu to the girl.

“You aren’t eating?” her mother sounded offended.

“I have plans for later,” Rona said. Ones she’d just invented, but would be sure to keep.

“With whom?” her mother asked, her eyes narrowing. “I hope it isn’t that awful MacGregor boy. I had hoped you’d forgotten all about him, and his dreadful family, by now.”

“He isn’t a boy,” Rona said, even though her contribution to the discussion was pointless. “And there’s nothing dreadful about him or the MacGregors.”

As usual, her mother carried on as though Rona hadn’t said a word. “I’ll have the grilled chicken breast,” she told the waitress. “Dressing on the side, boiled vegetables—al dente, please. I’d like them to have some nutrition when I eat them. And please ensure the chef doesn’t over-salt the dish.”

“Plain chicken, raw veg. Got it.” The waitress made a note. “Don’t worry about salt. I don’t think he uses it anyway.” Her expression was deadpan, and that was the giveaway—she was toying with Rona’s parents.

God bless her.